03 Mary Wakefield (9 page)

“Amazing!” he exclaimed. “I did not think there was an Englishwoman living who could have placed that quotation.”

“One of my father’s best friends,” returned Mary easily, “was a —”

On the side of Dr. Ramsey where Philip sat the doctor was a little deaf. Philip, under his breath, said the word, “Scot.”

“Scot,” repeated Mary loudly.

Dr. Ramsey uttered a bark of joyous laughter.

“A Scot, eh? I’d have thought the less of you, if you had called him a Scotchman.”

“Scot sounds so much better,” said Mary. “This friend of my father’s — this Scot — used often to come to our rooms in London and he would quote Burns.”

“Well, well. And you like his poetry?”

“I love it.”

“I’ll lend you all his poems. I have them very handsomely bound. Yes, I’ll lend them all to you.”

Dr. Ramsey fell into dreamy silence for a space. In his mind’s eye he saw the room in London where Mary’s father and his friends foregathered and in their midst a Scot, bearing a remarkable likeness to himself, who quoted Burns while the rest of the company hung with deference to his words.

Mary thanked him for his offer of the poems and, after some agreeable conversation, during which he promised to look in on her at lesson time and give her a little help with the children, he left. Philip and Mary were alone together. They still were standing after having seen Dr. Ramsey to the door.

Philip turned his head to look at her. His eyes had a roguish light in them.

“You did well, Miss Wakefield,” he said. “You did amazingly well. To think of your knowing that quotation.”

“I feel a humbug.”

“Nonsense. We’ve got to get on with people. You can see for yourself that the old gentleman could be difficult. You’ve been very clever.”

“And how kind it was of you to warn me about my dress.”

“Well, I thought it might be safer.”

She faced him, with an appeal for candour in her eyes.

“Mr. Whiteoak, do you find my clothes unsuitable for a governess?”

“No. Not at all. I like them.”

The warmth of his tone, his approval of her clothes, thrilled her with a new sort of confidence, of pleasure in herself.

“I’m so glad, because these things I have on are my only really plain clothes. I’m afraid I’m rather given to frills and flounces.”

“So am I. I love ’em.”

They smiled into each other’s eyes.

Philip’s half-grown spaniel puppy, Jake, came from under the table. The dark red table-cover was large and hung almost to the floor. Its edge now hung draped about the spaniel’s shoulders as he raised his eyes pleadingly to Philip’s.

For some reason it was necessary to Mary to have an outlet for her emotion. She bent down, took the puppy’s head between her hands and kissed him.

“Dear doggie,” she breathed.

“You like dogs?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve always wanted one of my own.”

“And never had one? What a shame!” He walked about the room, picked up his pipe and laid it down again. Then he said, “I think you’re going to be happy here.”

“I’m sure I shall.” At that moment she had no doubt of it.

“I was afraid of what you might be. Prim, you know, perhaps a stickler for the proprieties. Like Miss Turnbull.”

“I’m not conventional enough.”

“Neither am I. So we shall get on together.”

In another moment he had left her and she stood at the foot of the stairs alone. The house was very quiet. She put her hands on
the newel post and caressed the glossy bunches of grapes carved there. The doors of the drawing-room and Philip’s mother’s room were closed. Mary felt that there were presences behind these doors, longing to open them and come out to crowd about her and inspect her. These were the shadowy forms of Philip’s mother, his brothers, his sister, attenuated by distance, but becoming more solid every day. Their steps sounded in the distance. The day would come when they would open the doors. Mary felt inexpressibly relieved that she would have this coming month, in which to get used to her situation, to gain some control over the children, to enjoy — yes, to enjoy — being alone with Philip Whiteoak. She could not move from the spot where she stood without first living again the enchanted moments when they two had talked intimately together after Dr. Ramsey’s departure. She recalled each word he had spoken. She looked into the mirror of her mind and saw every line of his features. Did she dwell on them because he was handsome? she asked herself. No, a thousand times no. She had seen handsome men before. They were no rarity in London. Perhaps it was because his face showed such a power of enjoying his own life and the world about him. She recalled her father’s face, in which bitter remembrances of the past met apprehension of the future. What a contrast to this man who seemed to be asking no questions of life but just accepting it in its fullness.

Mrs. Nettleship was crossing the hall when Mary moved up the stairway. Mrs. Nettleship stopped stock-still by the newel post, as though examining it for the fingerprints of some criminal. Then she took the corner of her starched apron and began to polish it.

“It’s very pretty, isnt’ it?” remarked Mary, pleasantly, over her shoulder.

“It ought to be. All them grapes was done by a woodcarver in Quebec.”

“Dear me.”

Mary, accustomed to the rare and intricate carving in the medieval architecture of London, was not impressed. Something in her tone infuriated Mrs. Nettleship. It was not that she greatly admired
the carving herself but she felt a growing dislike for and distrust of Mary. She straightened herself and glared up the stairway.

“What’s the matter with it?” she demanded.

Mary was too astonished to reply.

At that moment Renny, running along the passage above, cast himself on the banister and came sliding down at frightening speed. The two women instinctively drew back from his untrammelled masculinity. But, as he reached the bottom Mrs. Nettleship caught him angrily about the shoulder.

“You’re not allowed to do that!” she said vehemently. “If I tell —”

“I am allowed!” he shouted. “Grandpapa prescribed it for me.” He tore himself from her grasp and flew out through the door, giving her a daring look as he passed.

“You come back here!”

“You go to — pot!”

Mary burst out laughing. It needed no more to make Mrs. Nettleship hate her.

In the weeks that followed she did all she could to hamper Mary in her attempt to control the children. To them she made fun of Mary behind her back. She encouraged them to be late for lessons, to hide when called. Once or twice Mary had a mind to tell Philip of their behaviour and of the encouragement in it they got from the housekeeper but she could not bear to cloud for one instant the brief periods they spent alone together. She strained toward these more and more. The hours of her day became divided into three distinct periods. There was the time spent in teaching the children and looking after their clothes, the meals eaten with them, at which Philip often was present, when he good-humouredly chaffed them or, with sudden promptitude, reprimanded them and with what a quick response! Never did he embarrass her by probings into their progress, but when Renny rattled off the names of all the sovereigns of England in verse or when Meg named every cape of the British Isles, scarcely taking breath because she knew that, if she stopped, she could not continue without going back to the beginning, he was delighted.

There were the times when they were alone together, perhaps discussing the children’s lessons but more likely she listening while he told of the achievements of his horses, or of some advantageous sale he had made. She could not discover whether he bred horses for pleasure or profit. There seemed to be plenty of money for everything at Jalna. There were a number of men employed on the farm and in the stables, all well paid and seemingly well satisfied. Certainly Philip Whiteoak took life easily and, wherever he went, carried with him an atmosphere of well-being.

The third period of Mary’s day was when in solitude she wandered through the woods. In England she had known London and the seaside. Here, for the first time in her life she stood gazing up into the dark branches of pines, remnant of the virgin forest, the ground beneath her densely carpeted by their rust-brown needles. Here was silence such as Mary had never known before, a deep resin-scented silence unbroken even by bird song. In the woods where maple, oak and birch throve together the birds, in their early summer rapture, sought for supremacy in song, each trilling as though he would drown out all others. But when they flew into the pine wood they were silent and rested for a little in the coolness of these sombre boughs. They did not build their nests there.

Mary would throw herself on the ground in the deepest shadow and stare up into their pointed pinnacles lost in unframed thoughts, in the ecstasy of isolating herself from all living beings — save one. His presence came into the wood with her. Sometimes she tried to forget him but she could not. Almost always she consciously allowed her mind to dwell on his features, one by one. His hair that at the temples was as fair as hers, his tranquil eyes that could light like a mischievous schoolboy’s, his fine mouth and chin, his strong body. How terrible it would have been, she thought, if she had never come here, never seen this place — never had the image of him as companion to her solitude.

One late afternoon he came into the wood in the flesh. She was lying prone but on her breast, her cheek pressed on the pine needles. She heard a step and then saw him walking along the path,
quite close to her. She had often pictured just such a scene; herself, in the loneliness of the wood, his coming upon her, startling them both. She had not permitted her imagination to go further but had allowed it to hover only on the verge of a scene of love. This dark wood should, she felt, be the setting for none but a profound emotion. When she was here she did not want to
feel
but just to be dreaming, on the fringe of thought. She kept very still and he passed without seeing her.

The weather turned hot, hotter than anything Mary had ever experienced. The air was vibrant with heat. Flowers came into bloom, drooped and withered before their time. Cattle and horses stood in the shade of trees switching their tails to keep off the flies. Philip declared that it was too hot for study and the children ran wild.

“I am doing nothing,” she said almost vehemently, meeting Philip in the hall, “doing nothing to earn my salary. It isn’t fair to you.”

“You’ll find plenty to do later on.” He looked curiously at the book she carried. “What are you reading?”

“Tennyson. I love his poems, don’t you?”

“I confess I don’t know much about them. My father-in-law is always quoting Burns. My mother Thomas Moore. My brother, Ernest, thinks there is no poetry worth his bothering about but Shakespeare’s. Somehow Tennyson has been overlooked.” He gave Mary his friendly smile. “Read me something of his, will you?”

She felt bewildered by the request, almost alarmed. “Oh, I’m not sure that I could find anything to interest you.”

“Of course you could.”

“I know I’d read badly.”

“But why?” Now he was laughing at her.

“I should be nervous.”

“Come now. Not with me. I’m the least critical person in the world. You say you’re not earning your salary. Here is a way to earn it. A benighted Colonial horse-dealer, sitting at your feet, yearning to hear Tennyson read.”

“Where shall we sit?” Mary asked, suddenly determined to do it.

“Come with me and I’ll show you the coolest spot hereabouts.”

He led the way across the lawn blazing in sunlight and along a path down into a ravine which by its deep shade and the sound of the stream that ran through it to the lake, gave an air of mystery to the place, so Mary thought and was constantly pleased by it. It was in truth cooler here. Philip took her hand as they descended the steep.

“Gather up your skirt,” he said. “There are brambles here.” His hand clasped hers firmly. She was conscious of the clasp of his hand through all her being.

On a mossy ledge he paused. The stream, green in the shadow, reflected the rushes, the boughs of the evergreens. A rustic bridge crossed it and under the bridge the shadow was deepest. Philip sank down at Mary’s feet with a sigh.

“What could be better than this?” he asked, looking up at her.

She sank beside him. “It’s heavenly. And so still. Except for the murmuring of the river.”

“It’s a very little river,” he said, “but I love it.”

“Jalna is beautiful.”

“It’s a pretty good place,” he agreed. “But we’ve talked about it before. Now I want to hear you read.” He settled himself expectantly, looking up into her face, his own dappled by a narrow spear of sunlight slanting through the leaves.

She opened the book. She was conscious of the trembling of her hands and feared her voice would do the same. To gain time she showed him the portrait of Lord Tennyson in the front, as she might have shown it to Renny.

“I think it is a noble face,” she said.

He agreed but he was admiring her slender white hands.

Presently she gathered herself together and began to read. It was easier than she had thought. He lay, resting on his elbow, very still. There was a comfort in his presence. Perhaps her voice encouraged the birds in that dim coolness, for they began to sing quietly all about.

Philip listened, but only half-attentive to the meaning, till he heard the words:

“‘No more subtle master under heaven

Than is the maiden passion for a maid,

Not only to keep down the base in man

But teach high thought, and amiable words

And courtliness, and the desire of fame

And love of truth, and all that makes a man.’”

He laid his hand on the page.

“Stop,” he said, “and then read that again.” She was confused. “That… which?” she stammered.

“You know.” He took his hand from the page and repeated the first line.

“Was I reading too fast?” she asked.

“No. I just wanted to hear it again.”

“Do you like it? Shall I go on?”

“Please, do.”

She re-read the passage and continued but less clearly. Her composure was shaken. Philip had picked up a small switch and was gently beating the ground with it as though to the rhythm of the poetry.